A Really Fowl Time
by Rainbowbananas
Summary: A salt-and-burn starts weird and gets weirder, and Dean's penchant for throwing himself at danger doesn't help. Season 7, Wincest, and tons of hurt!Dean. I hate to do this, but this story is officially on hiatus until further notice. My attention is simply elsewhere at the moment, and I'd like to finish something eventually.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Set Season 7, anytime between "Death's Door" and "Repo Man." Established Wincest. Also, I'm completely ashamed of the title, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed like something Dean would think is way funnier than it actually is, so there ya go. Pain and boykissing ahead!_

Dean clutches two cups of coffee to his chest and puffs out a breath into the sharp January morning. Doesn't make sense, this kind of weather, the sky so blue it aches and the sun bleaching everything white, but he can feel his blood crackling in his veins as it freezes. It makes him uneasy, a lingering sense of "too quiet" nagging at him.

He makes the walk back to the motel in five minutes, glaring and checking behind him constantly. They're in Pittsburgh, which Sam loves for some reason, always going on about the "atmosphere," which Dean takes to mean he's got a weird thing for urban decay. Dean thinks it looks like Singer Salvage got a hundred times bigger and sprouted churches.

When he finally steps into the room and closes the door behind him, relief floods his body and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The room is dim and warm and it smells like gun oil and Sam's shampoo, which they both used in the shower last night. Dean bitched that he didn't want to smell like a bitch but then Sam started kissing his neck and massaging his head and he got his hair washed anyway. He doesn't really mind smelling like Sam.

The only light in the room is from the window, sunlight striping across the bed through the blinds. Setting the coffees down on the table, Dean goes and sits on the bed, in which Sam is sprawled beneath the blanket, breathing slowly and deeply.

Dean hates waking him when he's actually sleeping. He strokes the hair back from Sam's face and sighs, debating with himself just blowing off this hunt and every hunt after and finding a little cabin in the woods and holing up for the winter with Sam. Besides killing Dick Roman, this is his fondest daydream. Sam would probably even agree; he apparently doesn't need to fill the searing emptiness of Bobby's death with revenge the way Dean does, or maybe he's just handling it better. By running or eating fruit or something.

Sighing again, Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's cheekbone, ghosts fingertips over his twitching eyelids, cups his ear. "Sam. Sammy. Time to wake up."

Sam lets out a garbled moan, pressing his face into the pillow, his long fingers clutching the blanket.

"Come on, I know I'm a jerk. But we gotta get going, 'less you think this ghost is gonna gank itself." Running his fingers through Sam's hair, Dean leans down and plants a kiss on the corner of his eye. Then another, on the bridge of his nose, his forehead, and somewhere in there Sam's eyes flutter open.

"Mm… De, are you petting me?"

"Nope. You're still asleep, I'm waking you up." The skin under Dean's hand as he cradles the back of Sam's neck is soft and fever-warm with sleep. He kisses Sam's temple, then the tip of his nose, getting a soft chuckle.

"'K then. You let me know when I'm awake." Sam closes his eyes and tilts his face up, an irresistible invitation.

Dean kisses the smirking lips gently, slowly, and Sam opens his mouth, humming happily around Dean's tongue. When he pulls back Sam opens his eyes and yawns, looking around the room.

"What time is it?" Sam scoots so he's sitting up against the headboard, bars of sunlight rippling over his bare chest.

To stop himself from trying to devour Sam on the spot, Dean gets up and grabs their coffees, then hands one to Sam as he sits back down. "A little after nine."

"What? Why'd you let me sleep so long?"

"Eh, we're not talking to the cops 'til ten, so I figured you didn't need to be up too early."

"And you're worried about me." That look, Dean hates that look, all soft eyes and knowing smile like he's the one having screaming night terrors all the time. He's not the one that needs reassuring, why is he getting the look?

Dean looks down at his hands. "You had... a bad night, man. Just wanted to let you sleep some without Lucifer crashing the party."

At the mention of Lucifer Sam's smile falters and Dean mentally kicks himself for even bringing it up. Then Sam sets his coffee on the nightstand and reaches out to place a hand on either side of Dean's face, stroking his thumbs over his cheeks. "Hey. It's ok, I'm ok. The nightmares aren't gonna hurt me, 'cause you're here, right?"

Jesus. Kid's pulling out the big guns. Blinking to make the stinging in his eyes go away, Dean nods, pulling his face out of Sam's hands and taking a sip of his coffee.

"Hey." Sam gently takes Dean's chin and turns him to face him again. "Right?"

Damn little brothers and their stupid smiles and their stupid hair that flops in their eyes and their stupidly large hands wrapped around your neck. "Right," Dean rasps.

This earns him blinding grin and dimples, which really no one should have to put up with so he sets his coffee beside Sam's and lunges, pressing him back against the headboard with a kiss. Long arms wrap around him and then slide under his shirt. Hands grip his hips and thumbs slip under the waist band of his jeans to massage maddening circles over his hipbones.

"Gaahh… Sammy, Sammy, we can't, we don't have time… we have to go talk to idiots with badges… mmm…" Despite his words Dean can't seem to pull himself out of Sam's engulfing arms, too busy licking the taste of coffee from his mouth.

Finally, Sam releases him and he drops his head into Sam's neck, breathing in the smell of his skin and listening to his pounding heart.

"You," Sam rumbles from above him, running a hand over his hair, "Are downright cuddly this morning. You trying to get me to do the laundry or something?"

"M'not _cuddly_, Sam, shut up. And you should do the laundry; I did it the past, like, three times." Dean gets out of the bed and grabs his coffee, swatting Sam over the head as he walks away to sit at the table. "Get up and get your fed suit on, bitch."

**SPN SPN SPN SPN SPN**

That night, Sam follows Dean up the wet, scrub-covered hill, listening to his brother muttering to himself. Dean's contentment had evaporated the second they stepped out of the motel room that morning. At the sight of the shitty red sedan they were driving, his mouth had twisted in disgust, only relaxing again when they got inside and Sam pressed him back against the driver's seat and kissed the anger away. It came back, though, Dean's hands going white-knuckled on the steering wheel. By the time they were through talking to the baffled police and the few witnesses Dean had storm clouds in his eyes and practically sparking at Sam's touch.

"Finally." Dean growls, and dumps the bag of salt and gasoline as they reach the top of the hill, where Edmund Harris Fowler is buried. They have never known so little about a ghost's motivations or methods before the salt and burn, but they found the grave and really, what was the point of more research if they already knew how to kill it? It bothered Sam, made him certain that something they didn't know was going to bite them in the ass, but he'd been unable to argue with Dean's battering-ram logic.

"Hey, wait a sec," says Sam, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder as he reaches for one of the shovels.

"What, Sam? Let's get this over with; I'm sick of this case already."

"Yeah, I can tell. You ok, man? You've been tense all day." He tries really, really hard not to sound judgmental or worried or any of the million emotions from which Dean instinctively flees.

"You wanna have a heart-to-heart over dude's grave, here? I'm _fine_. Let's get this done." He stabs the shovel into the dirt with the same expression he wears when staking vamps.

Sam runs a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Yeah, you seem fine. Did the ground say something about Mom, or do you just not like its face?"

With a snarl, Dean throws the shovel down and turns on Sam, but it's not anger in his expression, it's pain. Wide green eyes and gritted teeth beg him to make it all right so Sam does the only thing he can: he catches Dean's broad shoulders and pulls him in. Resting his mouth on top of Dean's head, Sam whispers, "What is it? What can I do?"

"Nothing. Nothing, stop it, I'm fine, let's – "

"You're not. You're not fine, and we've had this conversation so many times I can recite your lines, dude. Just tell me what's up and we can fix it, like we always do, right?" He squeezes the nape of Dean's neck, rubs his thumb over the short, baby-soft hair there.

They stand clutching each other by the grave in the damp night air, cold slashing at their faces and hands. The cemetery air is thick with quiet, broken only by the snap of tree branches hitting each other.

Finally Dean sighs and says into Sam's neck, "It's just… I'm just letting things… Sam, will you run away with me?"

"What?" Sam lets out an incredulous laugh and pulls back a little to see Dean's face. He's pale and pressing his lips together like he does when he's holding back tears and all the humor in the situation disappears when Sam sees that. "Dean, love, what are you talking about? Run away from what? To what?"

Before Dean can answer a shriek blasts over the still air, and the ghost of Edmund Harris Fowler appears behind his gravestone, flying at them with clawed hands.

"Fuck!" Dean dives for the bag and yanks out a shotgun, bringing it up just in time to blow Fowler away, the glowing fingers inches from his head. Sam catches the other shotgun as Dean tosses it and they both back toward the grave, watching for the ghost's reappearance.

In life, Fowler was a steel tycoon from the twenties, which meant he had enough money for the citizens of 1920's Pittsburgh to call him "eccentric" rather than "a hoarder." When he died, it was on a mountain of newspapers in his opulent dining room, severely dehydrated and exhausted after spending weeks doing nothing but memorizing articles at random. Even weirder, Sam and Dean have yet to uncover any connection at all between him and his victims, having tracked him down because he left the title of the article about his own death scrawled in ectoplasm over the walls by the victims.

Fowler appears a few feet away, shrieking again, his vest and coat flying in tatters as he lunges. Dean ducks and rolls, comes up shooting but stops himself just in time from shooting Sam. "No! Dean!" Sam yells as he sees a decision made in his brother's face, but Dean just grins at him and clambers to his feet, already backing away and yelling at Fowler.

"Hey! You crazy-ass motherfucker, come on! Yeah, you want a piece of this sweet ass?" He shoots, but – Sam's jaw drops and he clenches his fists, he is going to _kill _Dean for this – he doesn't even bother to aim and Fowler just screams louder as the rock salt blows by his head.

"Dean! Dammit, be careful!" Nothing to do now but finish the job. Sam grabs a shovel and starts digging, cursing the frozen ground.

"Just dig, Sammy!" Dean yells, then turns and sprints away down a line of graves like broken teeth, feet crunching on the dead grass. "Come and get it, Fowler, I'm right here!" Another blast of the shotgun cuts off the screaming for a few seconds and then it's back, growing fainter as Dean leads the ghost away from Sam.

Time stretches and warps as Sam digs frantically, leaving him with no idea whether he's been out here for minutes or hours. His harsh breathing and scrape of the shovel are loud in his ears over the faint wailing from the other end of the cemetery.

Suddenly the wailing stops and Sam's heart stops with it. Dean is screaming in agony, a sound Sam has heard his brother make in his nightmares about Hell but never with his eyes open. Dropping the shovel in the half-dug grave and snatching a shotgun, Sam races toward the sound. It goes on and on, how can Dean have any breath left to scream with?

At the end of a long, meandering row of ancient gravestones, Fowler stands, emitting sallow light, his hands wrapped around Dean's head. Dean is shaking, still screaming, and his gun drops from his fingers. As Sam watches, the translucent fingers sink into Dean's head. With a wordless shout, Sam raises his gun and blows Fowler away.

The scream immediately cuts off and Dean crumples to the ground, convulsing.

"No, Dean!" Sam drops to his knees and gathers Dean into his arms, holding him still, trying to brace his neck against the convulsions. Dean is gasping, his skin pale and running with sweat, and the violent tremors wracking his body are showing no signs of abating.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ok, we have to get out of here. Come on." Sam is aware he's babbling a little, but figures he's entitled to some freaking out after watching a ghost stick its fingers into his brother's brain. He's getting ready to pick Dean up off the ground when Dean arches, feet shuffling and hands clawing at the air, and then collapses limp into Sam's arms.

Putting his ear to Dean's chest, Sam listens desperately for a heartbeat. It's there, but it's slow and faint and every beat sounds like it'll be the last. Panic clenches Sam's chest but his hands are working without him, stroking the pale cheeks, checking for other injuries.

"Dean? Dean, love, can you hear me? Come on, you wanna make me carry you? Because I will, I promise. And I'll call you Princess Deanna for at least a week, come on." Deciding he'll wait ten minutes, then get Dean to a hospital if he doesn't wake, Sam settles his head more comfortably in the crook of his elbow and wraps a hand around his neck. "Please, wake up. Please, love, please."

A sudden stinging in his eyes and throat makes Sam stop and clear his throat, and when he speaks again his voice is thick and wavering. "Please… Goddammit, Dean, you can't do this to me. Why do you always have to do the crazy deathwish thing?"

Then Dean shivers, and his eyelids twitch, and he makes a tiny noise that might be Sam's name and Sam nearly goes limp with relief. Too many times, he has been in this situation too many times, looking at his brother pale and unconscious and maybe dying. "Oh, thank God, Dean? Can you hear me? Come on, just let me know you're in there." Sam takes his brother's limp hand and squeezes it, and is rewarded a few seconds later with a slight curling of Dean's fingers. Not a squeeze, but he'll take it.

Next step, see how much of Dean is present. "Ok, that's awesome, now do you think you can open your eyes for me?"

Dean whimpers and another shiver wracks his body, and he turns his face toward Sam. The pulse in his neck is slow, too slow; maybe they should go to the hospital anyway. But he's trying, hard if the labored breathing is anything to go by, to open his eyes. He gasps a few times and Sam shushes, stroking his hair, telling him to take his time.

Finally, Dean's eyes drag open, and he blinks slowly, staring straight through Sam. Another weak sound of distress escapes his lips, and his eyelids droop.

"Woah, no, no, no, Dean! Come on, stay awake, stay with me." Sam pats his cheek and Dean's eyes stay open, though he's still blinking and trying to focus. "Good, that's good, stay with me, ok? I'm gonna get us out of here."

With a sharp gasp, Dean grabs Sam's shirt. "Sss… Sammy…" he mumbles, finally focusing bright green and frightened on Sam's face. "Wh… Y'ok? Y'get Fowler?"

Sam wants to slap him, would, too, if he were injured anywhere but his head. "You… incredible douchebag. I'm _fine_, and no, I didn't get Fowler, he was trying to scramble your brains. Jesus, Dean," all the air gusts out of Sam's lungs and he rests his forehead on Dean's, taking deep, steadying breaths. "You have to stop being a distraction. We have to come up with a new plan. Or any plan, actually, any plan at all other than 'jump in and see what happens.'"

For a minute they both just breathe, Sam trying to regain some equilibrium and Dean trying to stay awake. Then Dean coughs and says, "K… get me up. Gotta… go finish th'job."

"What? What the hell are you talking about; we're going to a hospital."

"Nn… can't. What 'f… f'he kills again? 'Sides, what're y'gonna… tell th'docs? M'brother s'attacked by a ghost? Not t'mention… Leviathans… ever'where… no insurance…" By the time he's done, Dean's eyes are closed, and he's mumbling into Sam's shirt as his head lolls.

He's right. It's probably a good thing he's lucid enough to argue, but dammit, just once could they not have to make the hard decision? The Leviathans can't actually be everywhere; it's far more likely that they aren't at the closest hospital than that they are.

Thing is, though, they pretty much can be everywhere and Sam knows it. "Alright," he grunts, lifting Dean's shoulders so he's sitting up.

"Woah…" Dean gasps and fresh sweat breaks out over his face, and he hangs on Sam's shoulders, trying to get his breath.

"It's ok. Take your time. Fowler seems to have fucked off for now, no idea why though. You good?"

"Yeah." Dean is still breathing heavily, but he nods and grits his teeth and hangs on tight as Sam slowly hoists them both off the ground. Dean's legs buckle immediately, and he groans into Sam's shirt as Sam holds him up, feeling Dean's fingers twitch and go slack against his jacket.

The walk back to the grave takes forever. Dean is good for little more than keeping his eyes open and wrapping his arms around Sam, his efforts at walking more a hindrance than help. The sweat dries from his face and leaves him shivering, huddling close to Sam for more than support. When they make the grave, Sam lowers him gently to lean against the headstone and squats in front of him with a flashlight.

"Dean? Hey, open your eyes for a sec, I want to look at you." Sam cups his chin and lifts his heavy head. "Come on, love, I really don't think you should go to sleep. Guess we're using concussion protocol since I have no idea what a ghost sticking its fingers in your brain actually does."

"Sam… Sammy…" Dean's face twists in pain and he slumps, heading for the ground.

"Shit!" Sam catches him and props him back up, slapping his cheeks. "Stay awake, you hear me? Stay with me, Dean, do not check out."

"Mm… m'head… gghh – Sammy – " Eyes screwed shut, tears streaming down his cheeks, Dean flails and Sam takes his hand, cradling Dean's head with the other so he doesn't smack it against the headstone. He's twitching, legs kicking like he's fighting something, and then he starts whimpering – Sam wants to scream. If he thought God was listening he'd be praying as hard as he could, but he knows for a fact they're alone in the world.

Failing divine intervention, Sam would take the ground opening up and swallowing them, right now, rather than listening to Dean choke on his own agonized breath.

Since neither of these things happen, Sam again does the only thing he can: he sits on the freezing, wet ground and wraps as much of himself around Dean as he can. He hopes Dean won't go into convulsions again. He strokes Dean's hair and tells him it's ok, and wipes away a few tears of his own.

For once, his paltry efforts are enough. Dean goes quiet and slack in his arms, breathing hard but no longer contorted with pain. When Sam lifts Dean's head, however, there is a trickle of red coming from both nostrils, smearing the side of his lips. His eyes are closed, tears shining on his face.

"Oh, fuck…" Sam whispers, and then he decides he doesn't care if Fowler kills a hundred more people that night, he's getting Dean back to the motel and calling everyone in his phone. He tosses everything but one of the shotguns in the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and picks Dean up bridal-style, figuring a fireman's carry might not be the best thing for that nosebleed. Twenty muscle-tearing minutes later, he's easing Dean into the passenger seat and buckling him in.


	2. Chapter 2

"Goddammit!" Sam flings his phone away and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until the darkness bursts into fractals. He's got nothing. Nothing at all from half the hunters he knows and nothing useful from the other half. When he takes his hands from his face and checks on Dean for the millionth time Dean is still motionless on the bed, his colorless skin almost glowing against the dark t-shirt and sweatpants Sam dressed him in.

Everything Sam has in the world is in this tiny room that isn't his and it's not enough, he's not enough. He coughs out a laugh that leaves a bitter old-coffee taste in the back of his throat. He's never been enough, never really been able to handle anything on his own; hell, he's actively screwed things up more times than not but isn't that what Dean is for? What Bobby and Cas and Dad and his rejected faith were for?

A memory like ice down his spine: Dean, tired, sandpaper-voiced, saying _what if the bus wants to go over the cliff? _And suddenly, Sam has an answer: it's not the bus, it's the driver, and after several years of finding out how much the world actually does revolve around Sam and Dean Winchester, they really shouldn't be surprised anymore when everything goes to hell.

With a sigh, Sam gets up and retrieves his phone, tossing it on the table before sitting down beside Dean. He puts his fingers to Dean's neck and sits letting the pulse beat through his own body, methodically marshalling himself. He may be alone under an empty sky but Dean's heart is still beating and that means he's not allowed to fold yet.

"Really, Sam? You really think you and Dean are going to live another year? Another six months, even, without your stalwart father-figure to wipe your noses and Yoda you out of your pathetic existential crises? Please." Lucifer's voice slides oily and sharp from the bed where he is suddenly lying beside Dean, hands behind his head. The familiar succession of panic-rage-denial rips through Sam's chest and he grits his teeth on a gasp. Focusing on Dean's face, he digs his thumb into the scar on his hand and Lucifer sneers as he fizzles away.

"_Fuck_," Sam breathes as he drops his head onto Dean's chest, waiting for his heart to stop racing. That's right, he's never alone.

If Dean asked _will you run away with me_ right now, Sam wouldn't waste time asking for clarification. He's just say yes, and relinquish all control over the path they take.

For now, he can't sleep and he can't help Dean, so it's time to do all the research that Sam knew, he _knew _they should have done before digging up that grave. Several hours of grainy light and a headache scraping at his eyelids later, he has nebulous suspicions about Jeremy Engelson, the first victim, but the sun won't even be up for another three hours so no interviews for a while.

He goes and sits by Dean again, wraps his hand around his neck and feels the heartbeat in his palm. Dean always looks younger when asleep; the aggression soothed away, his mouth and eyelashes soft against finely-freckled skin. Sam slides his other hand over Dean's temple and through his hair, traces the line of his collarbone. Dean's hands, slack against his stomach, are unsettlingly delicate without a weapon in them.

Then Dean tenses and a soft noise escapes his lips, eyes flicking back and forth under dusky lids. He presses his lips together and turns his face into Sam's palm.

"Dean? Dean, can you hear me? Come on, wake up." Sam slides to his knees beside the bed so he's at Dean's level and tries not to choke on hope. "You in there, De? Please…"

Another meaningless syllable, and then Dean's eyes blink open, glassy and confused.

"Hey, hey, love. There you are. Can you hear me? Dean?" Sam gently turns Dean's face toward him, and is rewarded after a few more slow blinks with a half-lidded gaze and a small smile. "Welcome back. How do you feel? Any pain?"

"All for you…" Dean whispers, then licks his lips. "All of it, always, all for you…"

"What?" Sam searches Dean's face. "De, are you ok? What does that mean?"

Then the half-awake blur clears from Dean's expression and he blinks rapidly, jerking upright. "Sam! Sammy, gotta go back, gotta finish, where's… what… Sam?" His voice goes small and fading and he looks helplessly at Sam, who releases all his despair and worry in one long sigh and leans against the bed, weak with the lightness of relief.

"It's ok. It's ok, we'll go get him later, how do you feel?" The acrid tang of mildew rises from the covers as Sam climbs back onto the bed but it barely registers because Dean's shoulders in his hands are familiar and warm and solid.

Dean allows himself to be lowered back against the pillows. "Fine… actually, fine, I think. Wait, did you say 'we'll get him later'? As in, you _didn't _salt and burn the old bastard? Dammit, Sam, now we gotta – "

"Go back and finish, I know. But you were… Dean, Fowler _stuck his fingers into your head_. And you, you were having convulsions and your nose was bleeding and I, I just, I didn't – " Sam stops, takes a breath, smoothes away a wrinkle in the blanket, tries not to hate the harsh slickness of polyester. "I had to get you out of there."

Dean sighs and looks away and Sam swallows down the feeling of being bereft, refocuses. "You can bitch me out later, ok? Just, for now, you feel fine? Your head doesn't hurt, nothing?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Could use a drink." Dean moves to get up, but Sam stops him with a hand on his chest and gets a bottle of water from the fridge. "Not the kind of drink I meant," Dean grumbles, but drains half the bottle before wiping his lips and glancing at Sam. "What, what."

Someday Sam will figure out exactly what it is about that tone of Dean's, that particular quirk of his eyebrows and set of his chin that can turn Sam back into a gawky, furious fourteen-year-old with a word. He throws up his hands. "Nothing. Nothing, just, I thought you were dead about ten times tonight and I still don't know why. I don't know if you're even really ok or if you're about to go into convulsions again, I don't know if I should be worried about lasting damage or how I would check for that anyway, I don't _know – _"

Dean cuts him of by grabbing his face in both hands and pulling him down into a kiss, and Sam collapses into him, letting out a small whimper. The kiss is hard and needy and a little clumsy, and Dean doesn't release Sam until they're both panting and flushed. Sam curls against Dean's side, tucking his head into Dean's neck and breathing in the smell of leather and sweat while Dean's hand runs through his hair. Someday he'll also figure out why he doesn't mind when Dean makes him feel five years old and ignorant.

Slowly, his world expands again to include things other than the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the velvet of Dean's skin as Sam traces circles over his collarbone. "Ok, so, I looked at some more of the articles about Fowler when he was alive, and I think we should try and talk to the first victim's sister. A lot of the articles about Fowler said, in this really circumspect twenties-political-correctness sort of way, that Fowler was paranoid about people lying to him, especially journalists, stopped even talking to them in his later years. And we know Engelson stretched the truth a little in some of his articles, so I'm thinking maybe that's why Fowler fixated on him? I don't really have a fix on the other victims, but – "

"Sammy, Sammy, wait. Why exactly are we caring why Fowler killed these people? We can still just go finish the job tomorrow night."

Sam sits up, shrugging out of the warmth of Dean's arms. Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself that punching someone with a head injury, supernatural or not, is probably a bad idea. "Were you not listening to me? He _did something _to you, and I don't know what, and I need to make sure it's not going to happen again. How else am I supposed to do that except work the job?"

The expression on Dean's face, the squinted eyes and hard mouth that say the walls are back up and woe betide the little brother who tries scaling them, is what Sam calls the Dad Face. It makes him want to cry and kill at the same time. "Man, I told you I feel fine. I am fine. We'll go back tomorrow night, put up a big salt ring around the grave, and get it done."

The silence that falls is thick with words they've both said too many times to need say them now. The irritation and fear pass and leave Sam with an inadequate sadness, a certainty that he should be able to find the words to make Dean care about himself, and an equal certainty that he never will. He finally asks "Do you remember what you said to me when you first woke up?"

Startled, clearly ready for a fight, Dean looses the hard lines around his eyes. "What? Just now? When I said… um… right, that we had to go back and finish the job?"

"No, before that. When you first woke up."

"Uh, no. Sorry, Sammy, I don't know what you're talking about, I musta still been a little out of it. What'd I say?"

"You said… you looked at me, and you said 'all of it, always, it's all for you.' And then you woke up for real, I guess. You don't remember that?"

Dean goes white and his eyes fly open blank and shocked. A shiver runs down his body and he twitches away from Sam, staring at him wide-eyed. "Wh-what? I said… that to you?"

"Yeah… yeah, you did, Dean, what's wrong? Are you ok?" Sam reaches out but stops when Dean flinches away, closing his eyes and hiding his face in the pillow. He's shaking slightly, hands fisted in the blankets and guilt lodges in Sam's chest cold and iron-hard. "De, please, tell me what's wrong. I'm sorry, please, just – "

Suddenly Sam finds himself with an armful of older brother, Dean clinging to him desperately, and Sam can feel Dean's pounding heartbeat against his own. He wraps his arms around Dean and runs his fingers through his short hair. "It's ok," he whispers, not even sure what he's promising. "It's ok, it's ok, I've got you. It's ok."

After a few minutes of this, the shaking dies away and Dean's heartbeat slows to a pace that can't be felt through their layers of clothing. As gently as he can, Sam pulls back enough to see Dean's face, stroking a hand down his forehead and cheekbone. Dean keeps his eyes down, avoiding Sam's gaze. "Love? Will you tell me what it is? Why did that… bother you so much?"

"I – " Dean lets out a choking noise and looks up, meets Sam's gaze with naked pain in his bright eyes and trembling lips. "I just… no. Not now, I can't. I can't. Can we just… you must be tired, can we just go to sleep? I'm sorry Sammy, I just, I can't."

Sam shoves down the part of himself that wants to push it, knowing there's nothing to be gained from prying open whatever this wound is. "Of course," he says, and kicks out of his jeans and button-up shirt, then pulls the covers over both of them. Dean stays wrapped around him, using his chest as a pillow.

As Sam turns out the light, he gets a flash of Lucifer leaning against the table, arms folded, watching him with pure rage in his hooded eyes. Sam buries his face in Dean's hair and closes his eyes, telling himself the giggle bubbling from across the room isn't real. Seconds later, he surrenders to exhaustion.

_**A/N **__Sorry it's short and overly talky, but I figured as long as I had something I might as well post it. There's action soon, I promise. Anyway, pretty please tell me what you think, it will make me very very happy. And possibly write faster, though that's really up to the Muse. Peace!_


	3. Chapter 3

_The ground is rough under Dean's pounding feet and he can hear his own ragged breathing sawing in his ears, feel the crackling cold in his lungs as he gasps. "Over here, fugly, come and get it!" He lets out a shout of laughter along with a round of rock salt, which blows through the screaming, glowing form of Edmund Fowler. This mindless rush of chaos through the silent night is perfect, just what he needed to wash the clouds of weariness and uncertainty from his mind. At least for now._

_He skids to a stop, looking back the long, wobbling row of gravestones, gone still and soot-dark. His blood feels electric. He bares his teeth at the night, waiting impatiently for the ghost._

"_Liar!" Fowler bursts up right in front of him, hands clawing, eyes narrowed in hate. He has one of those creepy pencil-line moustaches, which might be hilarious later. Dean brings the shotgun up but it's too late; long fingers made of something more active than ice wrap around his head and his brain explodes. Everything goes white, and distantly he feels his fingers loosen on the shotgun. A rasping scream wrenches from his throat as Fowler presses closer to his face and the pain in his head intensifies. _

_Fowler is hissing something at him. "Liar, boy, you are a creature of lies. I can see them on your skin. You are filthy with deceit. You will…" The rest of the words are lost as the pain in Dean's head goes nuclear, and he falls into nothingness. _

"Dean!" Hands gripping his shoulders, shaking him, everything's warm and his head barely throbs – what?

"Mff – wha – Sam?" Dean fumbles his way out of the dream to find Sam looming over him, face pinched with worry. He shrugs Sam's hands off his shoulders and rubs his face. "Take it I was dreaming."

"Yeah. You ok?"

"Just some Leviathan clowns, Sammy. Nothing to worry about. Is there coffee?"

He can see the emotions play out over Sam's face: worry, frustration, then acceptance. Not three years ago it would have stopped at frustration and they'd be fighting right now. "Yeah." Sam gets up and grabs a cup from the table and brings it over.

"Bringing me coffee in bed?" Dean narrows his eyes at Sam as he takes a sip. "What'd you do?" The coffee blooms warm and bright in his stomach and he grins at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes and sits down on the bed. "Nothing, dude. How's the head?" He reaches a hand toward Dean but Dean catches and holds it, staring at Sam and struggling with a completely alien urge: he wants to tell Sam about the dream. Not a need to confide, more a reward for Sam's forbearance. He knows how much it hurts to watch his brother in even the slightest of pain.

"Um. Dean. What?" Sam's looking at him kind of warily, like he expects him to pass out again. Stupid Sammy, always expecting the worst.

Dean finally squashes the talking urge and just pulls Sam forward for a kiss. He tries to make it as clear as he can that it's a thank-you. "Nothing," he says when they part. "Just, good morning. I feel fine."

Sam's hand is warm as he leaves it on Dean's cheek, and Dean does his best innocent-and-sleepy face as he lets Sam stare. "Ok, then," Sam says warily. "Well, we've got an appointment with the first victim's sister in two hours."

With a sigh, Dean flips the covers back and gets out of bed, turning his back to Sam and stretching his arms over his head until his spine cracks loudly. Turning back around, he finds Sam watching him with wide eyes and chewing his lip, hands gripping his knees. All his arguments drain away at the sight and he slumps; he's just too tired argue with that face, no matter how pointless he thinks it is. Besides, it'll make Sam happy. What the hell else does he have going for him at this point? "Ok, sure. I'm gonna take a shower."

The expression on Sam's face is priceless. Poor guy had his arguments all lined up and ready to go. Probably has a bad case of geek blueballs now. "Um, really? Well, ok then. I'm, uh… I'm going for a run. I'll see you in a bit."

After his shower, Dean gets dressed and sits down at Sam's laptop. Sam's runs usually take at least forty-five minutes these days because apparently he feels the need to be in marathon shape, so Dean figures he's got a little over half an hour of Dick Roman research time.

The heater underneath the window does nothing but make occasional clanking sounds. It's freezing in the room, to the point that he can see wisps of steam from the shower curling up toward the ceiling and clouding the top of the window. He sticks his coffee in the microwave and dumps a few shots' worth of whiskey from Bobby's flask into it when it's done, then sits down to see what non-atrocities Dick Roman is committing these days.

Still no word on that fucking field in Wisconsin. He considers calling Frank and dismisses the idea immediately. The idea of wading through all the cranky half-craziness to get to the even crankier possibly-just-as-craziness sounds exhausting. He'll do it later. There's a lab doing some kind of operant conditioning experiments on chimps in Georgia, though, that looks promisingly sinister and hush-hush. Four layers of dummy companies, even. He's kind of proud of himself for finding it at all.

"_Boy…_" The crackling hiss makes him snap his head up, eyes darting around the room. What the fuck? The room's cold, but not ghost-cold, and the salt lines are all still there.

"_Monster… creature of falsehoods…_" This time, the words are accompanied by what feels like a spike of ice through both eyes and he gasps, clutching his head. He stands and wobbles to the nightstand, collapsing on the bed beside it. He's trying really hard not to whimper at the pain, which is ratcheting up to grenade-just-went-off-in-my-brain levels. The nightstand is blurry and wavering through the tears pouring down his cheeks, but he manages to grab the sawed-off after a few tries, his phone after a few more.

He's got the phone open and is squinting at the screen when the pain stops. One second he's trying to hold his brains in with one hand and dial Sam with the other, the next he can see again and his heart is pounding in his ears but he feels fine.

What. The fuck.

Slowly, he stands, checking to make sure the sawed-off is loaded, and checks the salt lines at the door and window very closely. They're completely intact. "Well, shit," he says aloud to the empty room.

No matter what happens today, they are torching this ghost tonight. He doesn't care if he has to do it by himself.

A tall figure outside the door and a key rattling the lock make him toss the sawed-off back on the nightstand and shove his phone in his pocket. He's just sat down and is taking a long drink of his coffee when Sam bursts into the room, panting and dripping with sweat. The sharp smell of frozen asphalt and car exhaust drifts in after him.

"Hey," says Dean, "How was it? Did you feel the burn? Were you all you could be?" His voice comes out even.

Sam rolls his eyes. "What does the Army… nevermind. Yeah, it was good. What are you doing?" He drops into the other chair and peels off his sweatshirt, and Dean gets distracted from his answer watching the muscles shift under Sam's gleaming skin as he reaches down and yanks off his shoes. He sits back up and rakes the sweaty tendrils of hair out of his face. "Dean? You in there?"

"What? Oh, yeah… um, looking up stuff on Dick Roman. There's this lab in Georgia, and they're doing something to chimps, trying to get them to reject their babies… or… something…" All the blood in Dean's body rushes downward and he very much wishes he didn't have jeans on. Sam has gotten up from his chair and is doing a series of stretches that involve much bending over and flexing.

"Yes…? Oh." Sam looks at him quizzically and then finally (finally!) realizes why Dean's stopped talking. He grins and fucking _saunters _over, the light playing over his shoulders and abdominal muscles, and stands so close Dean can feel the heat of his skin and he has to crane his head back to glare at him.

"You think you're so hot, don't you." Dean says, knowing Sam can see the bulge between his legs. "Think you're all distracting and shit."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you do."

That's it. Dean growls and stands, and yanks Sam's head down so he can claim his mouth with his own. Sam groans and opens for him and Dean delves inside, breathing in the smell of salt and Sammy. A hand cradles the back of his neck and the other slides down his back to squeeze his ass, pulling him closer as Sam slides a leg between his, putting unbearable pressure on his cock.

"Shower. Now." With a last lick over Sam's bottom lip, Dean takes his hand and pulls him toward the bathroom.

Sam chuckles and lets himself be dragged. "Didn't you just shower?"

"Yeah, but you need to, and I'm gonna need to again anyway, looks like. Now get those pants off, Sammy boy."

In half a minute, they're both naked and pressed up against each other in the tiny shower. Sam has Dean flattened against the wall, his chest sliding over Dean's back, and the sensation of Sam's hardening cock thrusting slowly between Dean's ass cheeks is driving him crazy. When Sam runs a hand up Dean's side and rubs his thumb over his nipple, Dean lets out a moan, which Sam swallows in a kiss.

"Gonna… run out… _gahhh, Sammy_… of h-hot water," Dean gasps as he turns to face Sam and grabs the shampoo. The scent of lemongrass fills the humid air as he squeezes out a dollop.

Sam closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the water soak his hair. The sight of runnels of water over soft lips, a long neck, and those broad shoulders momentarily shorts something out in Dean's brain and he can feel his cock twitch in response. "Turn around," he says, voice husky.

Sam smiles and does, and Dean works his fingers through the thick, silky locks, relishing the moans of pleasure he's getting from Sam. When Sam's hair is completely lathered, Dean continues his gentle, massaging motion down Sam's neck and over his shoulders, causing a delicious series of muscle flexes, and Sam drops his head, bracing his hands against the wall.

"_De,_ God _damn_…"

Dean kisses Sam's spine in reply, then takes him by the shoulders and turns him around so Sam can tilt his head back into the water again. The sight of his neck bared like that, his arms up washing the last of the shampoo from his hair, is too much, and Dean latches on, pressing a kiss over the throbbing pulse.

The next few minutes are a slippery mess of biting and stroking and soft whimpers. Sam gets Dean up against the wall again, sucking a bruise onto the join of his neck and shoulder, while he rubs his cock against Dean's ass and jerks him slowly. They're both breathing raggedly, Dean biting his lip over loud moans. They echo in these little bathrooms.

"S-Sammy – please – " The hand on his cock disappears, and Dean whines, but then a finger slips between his ass cheeks and rubs over his hole, around and around, just barely dipping inside.

"This what you want, De?" Sam rumbles against his back and Dean jerks, needing more friction, just _more_.

"God, _yeah_, Sammy please just – "

A cry escapes Dean's mouth as the finger slides all the way in, swirling, stretching, and is soon joined by another. The second hits his prostate and a molten burst of pleasure fills his stomach and rushes down his cock. He can feel himself leaking. The water might be getting colder but he can't feel anything but Sam's hands, Sam's body, hot as a branding iron all over him. A third finger enters him and he moans, thrusting back onto Sam's hand.

"Ready, love?"

Dean nods, not trusting himself to form words. Sam takes out his fingers and then reaches around to take Dean's aching cock in his hand, gives it a few fast strokes and Dean arches back, letting Sam collect the precome dripping out.

Then Sam thrusts into him, grabbing his hips to angle himself. No longer able to hold back, Dean lets out a cry and reaches a hand back to grab Sam's ass, pulling him closer. They move together, Sam starting slow, hitting Dean's prostate with every deep thrust. Dean starts jerking himself off, the ache too much to bear, but Sam removes his hand and does it himself, stroking in time to his thrusts.

"Ahh… Sammy, faster, faster, please," Dean is shaking with need.

Sam obliges, speeding up and rubbing his thumb over Dean's slit with every stroke, and soon Dean is bracing his hands against the wall, letting out near-sobs with each breath. Behind him, Sam is growling low in his throat, littering a series of bites over Dean's shoulders, which he then sooths with open-mouthed kissing and sucking.

"Come on, love, are you close? Gonna come for me?"

The words are enough to send lightning shooting through Dean's body, and he quivers, jerking spasmodically. "Yeah – Sammy – I – _uhhn_ – " With that, he is lost, come spurting out over his stomach and Sam's fingers as Sam gently strokes him through his orgasm. As he tightens around Sam's cock, he can hear Sam gasping and then the sensation of being filled, Sam's arms going slack around him as he goes rigid against Dean's back, moaning.

They stand, or rather lean into each other for several minutes after, breathing heavily, feeling the now-cool water patter over their heated skin. Finally, Sam slowly slides out, kissing the back of Dean's jaw in response to his hiss of discomfort.

They let the water rinse them off and then climb out, shivering a little. Dean grabs a towel and rubs it all over Sam's head, then cracks up at the sight of his exasperated expression and fuzzy hair. He wipes a palm across the mirror and examines the scattering of marks left by Sam's mouth across his neck and shoulders.

He sighs. "Sam, if any of these aren't covered up by my shirt collar, and I catch people staring, I'm not even gonna bother lying. I will sit down with the grieving relatives and say 'Yes, these are hickeys, and this gigantic bitch here gave them to me this morning when he was banging me in the shower. Also, we're brothers. Now, did you notice anything unusual about your dead loved one's behavior?'" By the time he's finished, Sam is wheezing with laughter, leaning against the sink, shoulders shaking. Dean grins and runs his fingers through his hair, then, judging himself presentable, leaves the bathroom, smacking Sam's towel-clad ass as he goes by and earning another snort of laughter.

Luckily, all the marks are covered up by his collar once he gets the tie on, so he doesn't have to tell people his brother gave them to him. Which he would have, really; can't have Sammy thinking he doesn't keep his promises.

**SPN SPN SPN SPN**

Lydia Engelson, the first victim's sister, lives in a studio apartment in Oakland, all unvarnished wood and tapestries over the windows. It smells oddly spicy from the incense burning by the door, a smell that reminds Sam of his friends' apartments back in California. It takes him so long to identify the memory it may as well have come from another life. He shakes off the slight wistfulness and glances at Dean, who has his professional, emotionless mask on for the girl. Or maybe just on, Sam isn't really sure sometimes. Either way, no sign of any lingering effects from the ghost – Sam shudders, just when he thought nothing could shock him anymore – messing with Dean's head.

As they move to sit, Sam sees a small red bruise just above Dean's collar, right over his spine. He smirks to himself, wondering if Dean would really make good on his threat if someone else noticed.

Lydia sits on the green patchwork couch facing Sam and Dean and wipes a tear away. Her fingers shake slightly as she hands Sam a picture of her brother. They look a lot alike, dark eyes and dark wavy hair, though her face is softly rounded where his was squared off.

"He was my best friend," she sniffs. "I mean, we fought, like all siblings, but… not ever really bad fights, you know? And we were in and out of each others' places all the time, we have all the same friends… God, I introduced him to his girlfriend." More tears trickle down her face, and Dean gives Sam a _calm her down _look, so Sam hands her back the picture and gives her a tissue from the box on the table.

"Lydia, have the police said anything? About why they think Jeremy was killed?" Dean says.

She balls up the tissue in her fist. "No! They haven't told me _anything_. I don't even think they're trying. They said it was just a burglary gone wrong, but, I mean, as far as they can tell nothing was taken… and... w-what kind of burglar cuts… s-someone's… throat? _God_," she sobs. "There was s-so much blood. All over his papers, and the desk…"

Sam does his best soft-and-understanding voice. "He was working when he died? Do you happen to know what he was working on? It's just for the insurance company, you know," he says when she gives him the look they get from all the families, the _what the hell does that matter _look. "They like us to be very thorough, and we don't want to have to keep bothering you." That sounded thin, even to Sam. Maybe they need to come up with a new default scenario.

Lydia seems to accept it, though, and the moment passes. Dean glances at Sam with raised eyebrows that say he thinks they might have been in trouble for a minute there, too.

"I don't really know." Lydia says, and Sam sighs inwardly. This visit is looking more and more like a waste of time. "He was probably going over his old articles. He'd gotten some letter or something complaining that he made stuff up, and I guess it really bothered him. He'd been doing that for about a week, just going through his old stuff, looking for mistakes, I guess? I don't know, he was kind of weird about it."

Dean sits forward and Sam feels like cheering. Dean says, "He got a letter? You don't happen to know where it is, do you?"

"Wh-what? No…" Lydia looks like she's starting to think they're crazy. "I never saw it, I just assumed… one day I came over and he was acting really weird, saying how he needed to make up for all the lies. Then a week later he was dead."

Sam says, "And do you know what he meant by that? 'Make up for all the lies'? Did he report something falsely?"

Lydia has definitely stopped crying now, and is edging backward in her seat, but answers, if a little guardedly, "No. I mean, nobody tells journalists the whole story, or whatever, no one wants to look bad in the news, but, I mean, he never made anything up on purpose. He was… he was a good writer, he didn't need to lie."

"Ok. Lydia, you've been very helpful, thank you so much for your time." Sam stands and Dean follows him. They shake hands with Lydia, who hesitates a little before taking their hands. It used to bother Sam when people gave him looks like he might be unstable and possibly dangerous, but now he actually finds it kind of funny, imagining the looks on their faces if he tried explaining. Whatever, he's got a job to do.

Dean, apparently, does not share his attitude. He shakes Lydia's hand perfunctorily, not meeting her eyes, and strides out the door without even a goodbye. He's down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk before Sam catches up with him, walking quickly with his shoulders hunched.

"Hey." Dean doesn't respond so Sam grabs his shoulder. "Dean, hey, wait."

Dean shrugs him off, but slows down. "What."

"What's wrong?"

He gets a sarcastic laugh in response, but nothing else.

"Dude. I'm just going to keep asking, you know that. Oh…" Something occurs to Sam, and he gets in front of Dean, stopping his determined trudge with hands on his shoulders. "Is it... something to do with what you said to me at the grave last night? I completely forgot about that, I'm sorry, I just –"

"Sammy." Dean puts his hands over Sam's and finally looks at him and Sam can tell that he's right. Dean has that same hopeless and resigned look and it's all Sam can do not to scoop Dean off his feet, carry him back to bed, and curl up with him until everything's better. "I'm fine, ok. Just forget about it, I was tired and pissed off 'cause we were arguing all day about the research. It's fine. Now let's get lunch or something, I'm starving." And with that, he shrugs out of Sam's hands again and continues down the street toward where they parked. Conversation over, door closed.

They find a diner with the same red-and-white checked, all-American decorating scheme that seems to pop up at least once in every town worth the term all over the country. It does have gyros and kebab on top of the usual cheeseburger and fried chicken fare, though.

Lunch is quiet and not exactly tense, but not really comfortable either. Dean orders a gyro and doesn't make fun of Sam's wrap, and in return Sam doesn't remark on the shot of whiskey Dean pours into his Coke from Bobby's omnipresent flask. The flask still makes his chest ache with missing Bobby sometimes, and he can't help but wonder if it does that to Dean too. It probably does, he decides, studying his brother's distant expression, and that's probably why Dean keeps it around.

Halfway through his lunch, Sam decides he's had about enough empty silence. "So. Do we think Fowler was haunting Engelson, for whatever reason? It definitely sounds that way."

It takes a minute for Dean to come back from wherever he was, but he clears his throat and says, "Yeah, that's what I thought too. What I don't get is how Fowler got focused on him in the first place. I mean, he's just wandering around, not being vengeful, and then randomly picks some nobody journalist and rips his throat out?"

"And, I'm sure there are plenty of journalists in this town who are much worse at their jobs than he was. I believe the sister when she says she doesn't know what could have set Jeremy off, she seemed genuinely confused."

"Or just thought we were whackjobs and wanted us out of her place, but yeah, the whole thing's weird and random." Dean sighs, takes a gulp of his Coke. "Weird, obviously, I'm fine with, but random? I mean, if there's anything this job isn't, it's random. Ghosts are supposed to have patterns, crazy patterns, but patterns. None of the other victims were even reporters; I mean, what the hell, dude!" Dean shoves his half eaten sandwich away with a disgusted look.

"I know." Lacking anything else useful to say, Sam glances around the diner, wondering what to do next.

Lucifer is sitting at a table across from them, arms folded, smirking at him. Sam twitches and grips the table, checking to see if Dean's noticed. He's lost in thought again, which would be at the top of Sam's worry list were it not for the freaking Devil sitting there _staring _at him.

"You two. You know, it was initially kind of fun, watching you play Nancy Drew of bump-in-the-nights, but to be quite honest, Sam, I think you and Dean-o might be losing your touch. It's right there in front of you and you can't see it. Hell, you _already know it _and you can't see it." The horrific incongruity, Lucifer sitting in a diner while life goes on around him, has Sam frozen in his seat. The smirk on the Devil's face grows to a razor-sharp grin, and he says, "But it's about to get fun again. Loverboy seems kind of quiet, doesn't he?"

A thrill of fear rushes through Sam and digs his finger into the scar on his hand, wrenching his gaze from Lucifer to Dean, who is rigid in his seat, eyes wide and blank, hands clutching his head. "Dean?" Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face and then the fear turns to panic when a tiny whimper escapes Dean's clenched teeth and a tear rolls down his face. "Holy shit! Dean! Dean, what is it?"

As he scrambles around to the other side of the table, Sam glances across the diner and finds the chair Lucifer had occupied empty. He feels no relief, however, as he crouches beside Dean's chair, gently drawing Dean's hands away from his head and searching for some sign of awareness in his unblinking green eyes.

Dean's whole body is locked up, his hands freezing, slight tremors running through them. He stares straight through Sam and another tear trickles down his face.

"Jesus. Dean, come on. Look at me. Help me out here." Nothing. Sam glances around again, relieved that they don't seem to be attracting any attention yet. The last thing they need is some Good Samaritan calling an ambulance full of Leviathan EMTs. He cradles Dean's face and blows out a breath. "Ok. We're going to get out of here, as unobtrusively as we can, and get you behind some salt lines. Sound like a plan? Ok, good. Let's go." Aware than the monologue is probably not the most unobtrusive thing he's ever done, Sam shuts up with an effort.

Getting Dean to his feet is a slow, shaky process. All his muscles are quivering in tension or pain, Sam can't tell which, but he moves when Sam directs, a hand on his back and another around his shoulders. His hands are twitching at his sides. Sam throws money on the table and leads Dean out onto the freezing street, feeling a pang for the Impala much like the one Bobby's flask evokes. It wouldn't make anything actually better, but the sight of what Dean has taken to calling the shit-mobile does not lighten the weight of the panic crushing his chest. It's just transportation, not safety.

Fumbling and cursing, Sam manages to fold his unresponsive older brother into the passenger seat. Sometime during their weaving stumble down the sidewalk, Dean's eyes closed, but every now and then another tear slips out from under his eyelids. Sam rests his face for a moment on Dean's chest, breathing in the smell of leather and his own shampoo, trying to calm down. He is all Dean has; he _has _to keep it together.

"Baby." Sam never calls him that to his face, he's pretty sure Dean would punch him. Or at least laugh at him. "De, baby, please wake up. Tell me what's wrong."

"_Gahh!_ Sammy!" Suddenly Dean's eyes fly open, darting around wildly, and he flails, almost smacking Sam in the face. "Nno… stoppit! _Sammy!_"

"Dean! Hey, hey, hey, Dean, it's ok, I'm right here. I've got you, it's ok." Sam grabs Dean's arms, pulls them down to his lap and holds them with one hand while catching his face in the other and gently turning it to his. Dean's eyes are struggling to focus, roaming lazily. Sam pats him on the cheek. "Come on, look at me. It's ok. Tell me what's happening."

Finally, Dean meets Sam's eyes. His chest is heaving, and he's gripping Sam's hand just as hard as Sam is gripping his. "Sss'the fuckin' ghost." A gasp. "B-been sayin' shit… sssounds like the same as E-Engelson. Lies, I'm a l-liar. W-wouldn't… let me m-move or t-talk…" With a strangled groan, he smacks his head back into the seat. "Th-thinks he can – _ah _– torture me into… t-telling the truth, or someth-thin'…"

This is not helping the panic. If anything, it's worse, as now Sam's panicked and completely confused. "Fowler? He's talking to you? What the hell, why can't I – " A burst of inspiration has Sam digging leaning over Dean for the bag in the back seat and pulling out the EMF meter. He flicks it on, waves it around Dean's head and body, and gets nothing.

A hand falls over his and he looks up to see Dean shaking his head, eyes narrowed in pain. "C-can't hear him anymore, Sammy. Said he was… g-gonna leave me t-to think about… it. _God_, my head." He wraps his hands around his head and brings his knees up, curling into himself in the seat.

The sight of Dean trying to hide from the pain flips some sort of switch in Sam. Abruptly, he is no longer panicked, but _furious_. "Ok. I'm getting you back to the motel and behind the salt lines. And then I'm going to the graveyard and burning the bones myself, even if I get arrested." He buckles Dean in and closes his door, then gets in the driver's seat. Dean is rocking back and forth, gasping, clearly holding back sounds of his pain. Sam puts a hand on his back and rubs soothing circles and tries not to drive recklessly enough to get noticed.

After about ten minutes of driving, Dean slowly begins to relax, and he turns to look at Sam. "Wh… where we goin'?" His voice is raw.

"Motel. Gonna get you safe, then go take care of Fowler." The steering wheel creaks under Sam's grip.

"Won't help."

"What?" Glancing at Dean, Sam is relieved to see him no longer gasping for air. "What do you mean?"

"Happened this morning… while you were running. Salt lines were good and everything, but he… he talked to me, made my head hurt. I thought it was just a, a side-effect or something. Went away fast. But the salt's not gonna help."

Sam stares open-mouthed at Dean, not sure whether to be angry or just scared. He gets his eyes back on the road and grits out, "So this happened before. And you didn't tell me. What, you didn't think I needed to know? Didn't think that information might be useful?"

Dean sighs, shuts his eyes. "I swear, man, I didn't think it was that big a deal. Like I said, it went away fast, and I… I didn't want you to worry anymore."

Sam lets out an incredulous laugh. "Well, that's probably never going to happen, so how about you just not worry about me not worrying?" He sighs, decides to deal with the frustration later. "So he's not there now."

"No. Head's getting back to normal, too."

"Well… good, I guess." The situation they're in nudges at him, trying to take away his clear-headedness, replace it with blind reaction. He can't let it. "Ok. Ok. This is weird, but it's still just a ghost. We can deal with this. That graveyard was huge and really old; if no one's noticed the grave already, there's a pretty good chance we can get him salted and burned without anyone noticing now. Especially since the hole's mostly dug already."

There is no response, and Sam looks over to see Dean fast asleep, head leaning against the window, arms folded over his chest like he's trying to keep warm.

"Ok." Sam says to him anyway. "Sounds like a plan."

_A/N: The plot, well, I can't say thickens, since this is the first actual hint of plot, but the plot becomes! I hope the shower scene wasn't too out-of-left-field, but when I realized Sam was going to come back from his run all sweaty and then get in the shower… I couldn't resist. Also, Lucifer is way too much fun to write. I miss him. I may have to do a Lucifer Fucks With Sam story once this one's done. Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated, positive and negative alike! Peace!_


End file.
